A Shot in the Dark
by ASouffleToServeTwo
Summary: Vengeance now comes in black. Witness the origin story of Oliver Queen's arch nemesis, Malcolm Merlyn, and his transformation into the Nanda Parbat assassin, the Dark Archer. Featuring DC characters not previously witnessed in the show. T for violent themes.
1. Grief

**Chapter One: Grief**

Malcolm took one last look at Starling City as it disappeared beneath a cloud. He'd never particularly liked flying, which was unfortunate considering his reputation as an international businessman. Still, it felt better to be a thousand miles above the Glades than to be in full view of it at all times. He felt free now that he had abandoned his earthly roots - like a bird, he had spread his wings and escaped his confinement.

Strangely, he hadn't planned any of it at all. He'd been at the airport on business with the intention of catching a flight to Greece. Instead, he'd found himself neglecting all of his cases on a conveyor belt to Athens, and purchasing a last-call ticket to Hong Kong. Some might call his actions irresponsible, or irrational, but Malcolm liked to consider it to be fate. Like some unearthly influence had guided his hand.

He'd had second thoughts the moment that he set foot on the Asia-bound plane, seeing all of the blank expressions of the passengers - all of them Rebecca. Sitting down in a seat right next to a window, he'd nervously shuffled with his belongings, flicked through an inflight magazine, and stared at the runway outside with forced interest like it was one of the seven wonders of the world. Anything to distract him. Anything to draw away his attention from Rebecca, as she took her seat next to him. That day he discovered just how magnificent the pattern on the cushy back of the chair in front of him really was. He closed his eyes, trying to wring out the torturous memories through a metaphysical sieve. When he opened them again, Rebecca was talking to him, and he was looking right at her.

"I'm sorry!" he said softly, tears starting to well in the corners of his eyes. "I'm so, so sorry Rebecca!"

Rebecca frowned, something approaching a posthumous pity gathering on her face. She looked away from Malcolm, interacting with the built-in monitor on her chair panel, but Malcolm could not draw his gaze from the pale features that he knew so well. The face of his dead wife. It was only when takeoff tremors shook up the plane, and the vehicle parted ways with the ground, that he was able to pull away from the stare.

Now, as the inflight movie rolled (the despicable Love Actually) and chittered in Malcolm's ears, and the airplane food poisoned all five of his senses, he found himself embroiled in a montage of his wife. Her sweet smile that had melted his insides like chocolate pudding, but now only lightly singed his gut, like indigestion. Her deep blue eyes. Her crisp, brown hair. The perfume that she always used to wear on a night out sifted up and into his nostrils, clouding his head and dampening his mind as though it was wrapped in a towel.

Malcolm had gotten onto a plane, and found himself in an obituary.

Everywhere he looked, he saw something of Rebecca's. Her hairdryer. Her nail polish. The rattle which she had bought Tommy on his first birthday. He felt compelled to find the nearest fire exit, and throw himself out. Anything to escape this bombardment of memories. Anything to stop the pain.

The plane landed six hours later. A stop-off at Japan to refuel. Malcolm was the first one off of the plane, despite being twenty rows back. He pushed and pulled past all of the alarmed passengers, ignoring the cries from the flight attendants. He sprinted down the landing dock, skidding past the ticket machines, only stopping to pause for breath at intervals.

The third time he stopped, he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Rebecca smiling at him. But she wasn't real. Her smile, just an illusion. She opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something, but then her head snapped back alarming, her pupils wide and blood pouring from her agape lips. She fell away from Malcolm, whose eyes were now transfixed by a sharp knife stuck fast in her gut.

He didn't stop once after that, making his way swiftly to the bathrooms and into a cubicle, upon which he collapsed, drawing his knees up against his chin, and letting the tears spill from his eyes.

"I'm so sorry!" he spluttered, sobbing and squeezing his eyes tight in an attempt to block out the haze that was gathering around his vision.

No matter what he tried, however, nothing would ever block out the sound of his wife screaming.

* * *

Malcolm arrived in Hong Kong some hours later, exhausted to say the very least. He didn't wait around with the other passengers; with no baggage to collect, it seemed rather pointless to stay within the airport at all.

Of course, now that he had forsaken his duty to Merlyn Global, and abandoned everything that he stood for: order and principles; the question that now plagued his mind was very simple.

What was he supposed to do?

Obviously, his first thought was one of rationality. To get back on a plane to Starling City, and get back to the reality he had sought so hard to escape. But he didn't want to go anywhere near an airport again; not after everything that had happened. He needed to clear his head, preferably through something cold, refreshing and intoxicating.

Hong Kong represented everything that Malcolm loathed in a place. The sense of unfamiliarity that hung over the intertwining streets was an unwelcome feeling to Malcolm, who felt lost enough already inside his own mind to want to have anything much to do with it. The glowing lights from the neon signs were blinding, like sharp knives in his eyes. As he continued walking, and a Chinese Dragon danced around him in some kind of irritating celebration, he began to feel particularly dizzy. The layers of his brain began to peel back until, eventually, he managed to tear himself back inside his head, and into the alleyway into which he had stumbled. He was just about to turn back and leave the way he came, when a voice from the shadows startled him.

"Are you lost?" it asked, punctuated by a strong Chinese accent.

"No, I was just leaving," Malcolm assured it, renewing his efforts to escape, only to bump straight into its owner. He was a tall, muscled man with a buzz-cut, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and pants. Not that his physical appearance was particularly striking, especially when most of Malcolm's attentions were on the small razor he held in his gloved hand.

All of a sudden, Malcolm felt incredibly small, and the weight of his foolish decisions pressed down on him, crushing the brim of his skull. The man made certain that Malcolm could see his weapon, brandishing it and letting the distant light of the neons shine off of it.

"Empty your pockets," he ordered. "Now."

Malcolm did not hesitate to do so, tossing his mugger just over three-hundred dollars. Unfortunately for Malcolm, this was an unusually large amount of money for an ordinary person to be carrying.

"Hit the jackpot tonight, boys!" the man laughed, gesturing to the three men who had come at Malcolm from his behind. "He's rich!"

"Please, I have nothing more to offer," Malcolm told him, panicking at the weakness of his lies. He was a frightened animal, trying to bury himself in layers of disillusion, but to no avail.

"You have more than most men," the mugger retorted. "A life worth more than any of your money! Tell me your name."

Malcolm still had some sense of resilience left. "No," he replied, before attempting to push the man aside and make his escape.

He had made a huge mistake. His opponent was very hot-tempered, and had anticipated his clumsy move from a mile off. Quickly, he moved in to punish Malcolm's clumsiness, punching him around the face with a fist bunched like a stone. Malcolm felt some of his back teeth break on impact, and blood frothed in his mouth. Blinded by white light, he stumbled backwards in a daze of concussion.

"Shouldn't have done that," the mugger gleefully informed him. "I said we needed you alive. Didn't say I wouldn't hurt you."

He was about to advance upon Malcolm, razor blade in hand, when his eyes went wide, and a shower of blood cascaded from his chest, where it had been parted by a very sharp - and very long - blade.

As Malcolm watched, the owner of the sword dropped down from the roof to retrieve it. Malcolm found himself transfixed by the strange, uniform-like robe they wore; in the dark, they looked almost like a ninja. The mugger's cohorts fled at the very sight of him, abandoning their loyalty to their leader with little-to-no remorse. Distracted by their movement, Malcolm turned back to his saviour to find him gone.

Like a shadow, he had disappeared back into the darkness.

Then, he felt the kick in his back, and he went flying to the ground. As he opened his blood-caked eyelids, a shadow fell across his vision, blotting out the light.

"Malcolm Merlyn..."it said, its voice a deep, guttural roar that shook Malcolm down to his bones.

"Make peace with this world. Your time in it... is up."

To Be Continued...


	2. Assassin

**Chapter Two: Assassin**

Malcolm's assailant loomed over him, their sharpened blade hovering dangerously close to his vitals. He could feel beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead, the erratics of his breathing, and the pulsing of his own heart against its ribcage. Every second that passed was agonising, with his expectancy to have his life closed stabbing him with anticipation, and dread.

Eventually, he found himself opening his tightly-eclipsed eyelids, and saw that he was - for now - still within the cruel clutches of life. His assassin was still poised to strike at him, but he made no action that indicated that he was about to do so.

"Well?" Malcolm spat. "Are you going to do it then?"

When he was finished, an awful silence descended unto the proceedings. The tension was palpable; at this point, Malcolm believed that death might actually be preferable.

Suddenly, the assassin began to laugh. Due to the deep nature of his voice, it sounded like it should have come from a creature much larger and more horrifying than the single figure that stood before him. Then, just when Malcolm could bare it no longer, the assassin spoke.

"Well, you're very keen to die, aren't you?" they boomed, admiring the shaft of their blade whilst keeping an amused eye on Malcolm. "Tell me... did you place this hit upon yourself?"

"No." Malcolm doggedly stood to his feet, a new determination not to die whimpering filling him with willpower he had long forsaken. Not since Rebecca had he felt so isolated. Here he was, at the mercy of a cold-blooded killer, and he was being laughed at for acting upon his fear. No. "But I'll place one on you if your not careful."

The assassin turned their attention from their sword, and turned menacingly toward Malcolm. "I didn't say you could stand."

"No, you didn't." Malcolm wiped his bloodied maw across his sleeve. "But you'll have to kill me if you don't like it."

The assassin froze under Malcolm's steely glare for a few, unnerving moments. "It doesn't matter to me how you die. Standing up; sitting down; on the toilet. At the end of the day, I always get my payroll's worth."

Malcolm's eyes swerved to follow the assassin as he started to walk at an uneasily-casual pace around him. "How would you like to die, hmm? A knife in your heart? A blade against your throat? A quick snap of your spine? I really am giving you the liberty of choice here, Mr. Merlyn."

Malcolm took a long, nervous breath that shook his bones as it escaped from his lips. He was putting on a brave face, and his body was taking the toll for it. "Freedom is nothing but an illusion. I'll end up dead, anyway."

"Yes, but surely death is the only true freedom? Freedom from taxes, from pain, from suffering? Life is a prison; death is the key."

Malcolm resisted the urge to tremble, determined not to give this psychopath anything but his middle finger. "Then release me-"

All pretence of dignity in Malcolm flew out the window when the assassin suddenly whipped his blade around, slashing Malcolm's emaciated tie from his neck, and dropping it to the ground with a soft, velvety thud.

"You'd like that wouldn't you?" the assassin accused, lowering his weapon in satisfaction at seeing the fleeting glimpse of anguish in Malcolm's eyes. "Well, I'm not under your payroll, and I'm not giving you what you want. I will, however, offer you a choice."

Malcolm was too shocked to speak, compelled to keep his tongue inside his mouth lest it meet the same fate as his tie.

"The men who attacked you tonight... I've been watching them for days. Real lowlifes... You're not the first person that they robbed tonight. These men don't deserve to live. They are just like the men who murdered your wife, Malcolm."

Acidic guilt and revulsion churned in Malcolm's gut as the memories of Rebecca's heartbreaking phone messages came back to haunt him. "How did you-"

"I can tell about a person. You don't fear death because you want to be enveloped by it yourself. You aren't thinking rationally. You forget about your son, or you try very hard to."

Tommy. "But how-"

"That's not important. Those men will escape justice tonight unless you act. No judiciary can touch them - they're either unwilling, or strictly incapable. Right now they're terrified... vulnerable, but by tomorrow they will have recovered, and your chance will be gone."

"My chance to do what-?"

The assassin tossed a vial toward Malcolm, who barely managed to scrape together the reflexes to catch it.

"Seplock. It's a slow-acting poison, but it does its trick. You can either take it yourself, and end your life, or you can coat it upon this blade..." The assassin dropped its sword onto the ground, and kicked it to Malcolm without a second thought. "... And use it to end theirs..."

"And what if I choose to do neither?" Malcolm demanded angrily.

"Then I retract my offer."

Malcolm glanced at the opal-textured fluid, and then down at the sword, still coated in the blood of the gang's unfortunate leader. When he looked for the assassin again in an attempt to have his instructions clarified, he saw nothing but the night, and the faint, sickly glow of the neon from the main road.

* * *

Naturally, Malcolm's first post-traumatic action was to drop to his knees, and unleash a floodgate of vomit onto the pavement. Images of the assassin's blade slicing tenderly across his bare flesh threatened to tide him over, and upon attempting to take a step forward, he fell straight back down. The vial that had been thrusted upon him swirled hypnotically, as if offering a taunt.

Malcolm raised his head uncertainly, expectant that at any moment, the assassin would return to complete his work. But the moment did not come, and eventually, Malcolm found himself peering at the Seplock, imagining the horrors that the substance had caused previously, and would surely - if given the chance - inflict again. His fingers coaxed the seal, brushing over it gently whilst in the thrall of his own indecision. Before he knew what he was doing, the vial was open, and its contents were trickling steadily down his throat.

"Fool."

The voice startled Malcolm so much that he started to choke on the Seplock. He coughed and spluttered, showering the wall with a mixture of saliva and poison. When he turned around, he saw his assassin was with him once more.

"You would throw away the gift of life so easily. Why?"

Malcolm swallowed hard. "I can't. I've tried to forget her, but I just can't. "

"So, you want to join her? You have lost your affinity for life. This can be a strength, but it can also define your weakness."

"Screw you," Malcolm growled, hefting the blade he had been given, and running at the assassin. As he swung, the assassin stepped backwards, and kicked out at Malcolm's hand, causing his grip on the blade to falter, and for it to skid off across the ground.

"Impressive resolve," the assassin grunted, before back-handing Malcolm across the face. They quickly followed it up with a knee to the gut and a kick to the leg. Malcolm toppled like a tower of Jenga, and the assassin stood over him triumphantly, his foot placed upon his neck.

"It's not poison," the assassin said, sounding pretty smug with themselves. "Where I come from, we have a toxin called Seplock, but if that had been what you just ingested, your brains would be pouring from your ears by now!"

Malcolm grunted from his unsavoury position on the floor. "So...? What were you... trying... to prove?"

The assassin did not speak for a moment, but then his hands went to his balaclava, and to Malcolm's surprise, he tore it off. The man beneath was much less intimidating than his exterior bravado. He wore an irritating grin, and a thick black goatee that reminded Malcolm somewhat of barbed wire. His eyes, however, were strikingly piercing, and Malcolm found that he could not tear away from them.

"My name is Al-Owal," the assassin declared. "And I am a member of the League of Assassins."

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Mountain

**Chapter Three: Mountain**

Malcolm stared at the impending peak, absorbed by an unshakeable void of vertigo. The mountain was huge. After about five hundred feet, it seemed as though even the clouds had given up, leaving a milky white trail around the apex. Quite how he had ended up from Shanghai to Tibet was uncertain, but he recalled Al-Owal offering him an opportunity to change his life. As far as Malcolm was concerned, the fact that he still clung to his bitter life was enough of a reason to follow the assassin at his word. One thing was still bugging him more than any other, though.

"Who are the League of Assassins?"

Al-Owal stopped, turning his head and offering Malcolm a canine-smile. "Exactly." The assassin had not exactly been forthright about anything, save for his apparent mercy toward Malcolm, but this level of ambiguity was starting to tick him off. "Look up ahead."

Malcolm did, and immediately wished he hadn't, remembering how he had experienced the Shanghai aeroplane flight through the guise of a bird, and now imagining said bird on fire.

"Ning Gail Tor," Al-Owal spelled, his tongue clicking to the rhythm of perfect pronunciation. "It means The Devil's Door."

Malcolm wiped away vigorously at the beads of sweat that had begun to cluster upon his forehead. "Am I supposed to be reassured?"

"No," Al-Owal retorted bluntly. "You're supposed to be afraid. Terrified. Feel that fear pushing down on you. Fear can make you stronger, but if your spirit is not strong, it can also break you. You will find out for yourself the kind of man that you are."

Malcolm blinked hard, not quite believing what the assassin had said. "You're not coming with me?"

Al-Owal snorted. "Of course not. I cannot take you to Nanda Parbat. Neither can you simply find it."

"Then how am I supposed to-"

"If you have been chosen, Mr. Merlyn," Al-Owal interrupted, clenching his teeth and bracing himself against the relentless chills of the wind. "Then Nanda Parbat will find you. Here."

The assassin tossed Malcolm a small, rounded knife. Malcolm took it in the palms of his hands, sensing an incompatibility between his reflexes and the weapon. It simply felt unbalanced, and Malcolm did not find any attachment to it, despite it being his only weapon.

As if sensing his thoughts, Al-Owal spoke. "If you are indeed chosen, then you shouldn't need it at all. Your mind is your greatest weapon. Embrace it whilst it is still sharpened."

Malcolm looked out across the barren landscape that struck out ahead of him. When he looked back for Al-Owal, he was not surprised to see that the assassin had disappeared into thin air. Over the past few days of travelling, Malcolm had become accustomed to the vanishing act. He had come to accept that all Owal's company really provided was snideness and egomania; he was far more equipped by his own merits.

Breathing deeply both from exhaustion and apprehension, Malcolm took his first step towards the mountain.

* * *

Malcolm gritted his teeth together tightly as another blast of cold air ruptured his flesh. He was practically blinded by the onslaught of the snow, covered head-to-toe as he was in the white grit.

It was at that point when Malcolm started to look back upon his decision to climb the mountain with regret. Three hours into his crucible, and he was nowhere closer to anything even slightly resembling civilisation.

Malcolm passed a snow-capped tree to his left. Eerily, it reminded him of a tree he had passed some minutes prior. And one before that. To say that he was disoriented was to understate the extent of his plight. The 'Devil's Door' was proving to be quite the immovable object.

Against the backdrop of the pounding sleet, Malcolm's ears pricked up at the sound of a high-pitched whine that seemed to come at him from all directions. Another followed seconds later, and Malcolm realised that what he was hearing was the conversation between a pack of hungry wolves.

A pack of wolves that were far too close for comfort.

Malcolm hurried on through the snow, biting down on his swollen lip with trepidation. In his haste, his foot caught on a loose patch of ice, and he tumbled onto the ground, tasting the all-too-familiar flavour of blood in his mouth. Before he could even recover his stature, he felt hot breath on the back of his neck, and turned over to be warmly greeted by the piercing yellow eyes of a shaggy black wolf. The animal bared its teeth, assessing Malcolm. He didn't dare to move for fear of failing its test - an exam where the price for failure was death.

Two more wolves arrived through the blizzard to join their compatriot. The first drew back its muzzle, its long pick tongue lashing out from within and tasting the air. The second took a determined step toward Malcolm, its eyes rested firmly upon his chest.

Malcolm took out the knife that Al-Owal had given him. At the sight of the blade, the wolf snarled, and leaped towards him. He barely had the chance to throw himself aside before the gigantic wolf skidded past him, turning quickly on its heels to counteract the evasive manoeuvre of its prey. Meanwhile, wolves one and three had appeared behind him, forming a deathly triangle. The wolves' intelligence seemed to surpass animalistic virtue, and this display only went farther to secure Malcolm's insecurity.

The wolf that Malcolm had dodged leapt up at him, its jaws poised to clamp around his throat. Malcolm swung the knife wildly, cutting the beast across its eyes, and breaking the skin. It was dead by the time it bundled into him, knocking the wind out of him and weighing him down.  
As the first wolf apprehensively circled Malcolm, he strained the knife towards it, plunging it through the creatures' jaw. To his horror, although his aim had proven true, his strength had been his downfall, for he could not budge the knife.  
Leaving it stuck fast in blood and bone, Malcolm heaved the other wolf's body from his torso, letting the air rush back into his lungs again. His relief was short-lived however, as the third and final wolf crashed into him, its teeth sinking into his ribs.

Malcolm twisted his mouth horribly as the agony coursed through him. The most pain he had ever experienced in his life prior to now was when he stubbed his toe whilst hoeing the Merlyn garden; better days for sure. This pain was so real, so visceral - it felt like it belonged in another world to his own. Malcolm's vision clouded murky red as the wolf tightened its grip, and he threatened to tide over into unconsciousness.

With one final rush of adrenaline, Malcolm put his hand upon the wolf's snout, searching for a critical point. Finding none apparent, Malcolm settled for a vicious jab of his thumb into its eye. Instantly, the wolf shuddered, its mouth still relentlessly bonded to his flesh. Malcolm intensified the pressure, feeling his thumb slip through into the deep crevasse of its socket, and finding himself - to his disconcertion - rather enamoured by the brutality of his action. Finally, blood ruptured from the feral beast, and its struggles ceased.

Seconds from blacking out, Malcolm prised the creatures jaws from his ribs. Enthralled by the pain, he threw his head to the sky, screaming his torment to the mountain. His head lulled, and he fell upon his side, blackened blood seeping into the white snow like a demented yin-yang. Only in the last few seconds of his consciousness did he feel the hands on his damaged skin. Either his salvation was here, or he was about to die that much quicker. The better of the two was unclear, but sometimes, ambiguity is for the best.

As he dropped out of this world, and into whatever was to come next, he only had one thought. In its own way, the mountain had answered him.

**To Be Continued...**

**Chapter Four will contain the debut of an important DC universe character. Guess who it is :)**


	4. Dead

**Chapter Four: Dead**

Malcolm squinted as the light from the lantern on the ceiling pierced his vision. He watched, hypnotised, as the light swung gently to and fro, imbalanced by the gentle yet brisk winds. He noticed that he was in some kind of tent, but he could not tell where. Memories of wolves, teeth and blood rushed at him and attempted to tide him over. With no alternative, Malcolm came to the assumption that he was, in-fact, dead.

He attempted to move, but found that he had no access to any of his motor functions, save for his eyes. The experience was indescribable; 'like being in a bubble' was the closest Malcolm could get. Where no sound troubles the ears, no breath shudders the lungs. He felt like a marionette, every one of his limbs unresponsive and wooden in composition.

After a long period of maddening silence and ceaseless inactivity, he became aware of a presence. He had not noticed it at first, and even now that he did he could not feel life emanating from it. It was the strangest sensation Malcolm had ever had. The presence seemed to be both existent and hallucinatory; like a shadow with no caster, it simply did not seem to belong. It seemed to just stay there, watching him.

To say he was unsettled was to understate the meaning of the word. He felt like a corrupted soul awaiting his judgement. The image of Sutekh chomping upon his blackened heart shuddered through his mind, and he fought hard to drive it out. Eventually, the presence moved into his line of sight, and he was put at ease to see a humanoid figure, clad in black robes. The figure had its back to Malcolm, with a dark-gold hood shrouding its appearance.

With a voice like nothing he had ever heard before on the planet, the figure spoke.

"Where does your journey end, traveller?"

Malcolm did not speak - alas, he could not if he had wanted to - which made it all the more shocking when the figure continued as if response to his unspoken thoughts.

"You have come seeking your purpose. You have done well to reach me. The mountain has cleansed your soul as it has mine. Now you are ready to begin your new life."

As Malcolm listened, the figure turned to him, its face still obscured by the shadows.

"My name was Boston Brand. In this life, I am guardian to the ancient citadel of Nanda Parbat. I am your final test of worth. Al-Owal has sent you?"

Images of the bearded assassin flashed through Malcolm's head. To his surprise, Malcolm found that he could not summon any strong feeling about him at all. The figure seemed to nod as if in understanding.

"He still has many lessons to learn. For example, you must know when you are in your rights to take a life. Blood should only be spilt in accordance with a contract, or in self defence. We are assassins, not murderers."

As he watched the figure speak, Malcolm noticed a glistening on their left hand. Suddenly, the hand was raised, revealing a murky, coal-black ring embellished with a white gem. The contrast was reminiscent of Yin and Yang, and Malcolm found himself utterly mesmerised by it. The ring glistened palely, and a rush of nausea rushed at Malcolm, disorientating him thoroughly.

When his eyes opened again, he was not in the tent but on a street that he recognised unfortunately well. It was the Southwest Passage.

The street where Rebecca had died.

To his confusion, Malcolm found that he was no longer lying down in a state of paralysis, and was standing up perfectly straight. He looked around him, incredibly satisfied to have regained his bodily functions.

And then he saw her.

His wife. Rebecca.

She was just walking down the street. So simple, yet so melancholy. She didn't seem to see him as he approached her, calling her name and weeping with joy.

Then, Malcolm was struck with horror as he began to realise what he was witnessing. Two rough-looking men rounded the street corner, laughing to each other. Upon seeing Rebecca in the distance, they moved back around the corner to pull black woollen masks over their faces. Then, they sprung out at her, one of them waving a small, yet vicious-looking handgun.

Rebecca froze as she saw the weapon, but she did not try to run. "Please," she pleaded, holding her hands up in defence. Her face was contorted by fear; it was more than Malcolm could take.

"Give us your money, Merlyn," one of the crooks jeered.

"It's Danny, isn't it?" Rebecca asked softly. "I've treated your brother. Please, you don't have to do this. There are other ways to make money."

"I'm sure there are," Danny retorted. "But do I look like a hard worker?"

He started to raise the gun. Malcolm had been standing rigid, but at this his instincts kicked in. He was next to the robbers before he knew what was happening, unleashing a barrage of steely punches into their faces. To his horror, each punch disappeared without a trace, dissolving into a strange black fog. When he was finished and breathless, he fell upon his knees. Suddenly, a huge black skull appeared in front of his vision, rushing him and unleashing an ear-piercing scream. Malcolm was so shocked by the apparition that he was knocked off his feet and to the pavement.

"Revenge clouds your vision. We do not allow it."

Malcolm was back in the tent when he opened his eyes, except that now he found himself able to move his muscles. He saw Boston standing right over him, his hood off and revealing a pale blue face with milky-white eyes. The image was startling, but Malcolm sensed no hostility from him, and relaxed the tension in his body.

"I understand grief. I understand death. I too have experienced it. It does not change us however; that choice is up to you. That's why I came to Nanda Parbat. My reincarnation was an act of cruelty, but I seek to make an advantage from it rather than let it destroy what little of a life I have left."

"That ring..." Malcolm coughed.

"...is none of your concern. You would not understand it anyway. Few of us humans ever have."

Malcolm closed his eyes and applied a gentle pressure to his forehead, just below his temples. He had long been estranged from clarity, but this was giving him one killer headache.

"I sense darkness in you, Malcolm, but there is darkness in all of us. Remember, emotion will always partly control you; just make sure that you're making it work for you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I will allow you passage into Nanda Parbat. You did not pass the test, but then, no 'one ever has. If Al-Owal has seen something in you, then I will not stand in his way."

Malcolm stood up dizzily, and Boston stuck out one arm for him to lean upon. Gently, he lead Malcolm to the tent flap, and pushed it aside.

The first thing Malcolm saw upon his exit was not the snow-capped mountainside, but a stone pavilion. Nonetheless of his initial impression, he was soon taken in by his surroundings. It was one of the most striking vistas Malcolm had ever seen in his life. The sunlight seemed to shine through the rock, lighting it up with shiny dots and giving the image of a paradise.

Steps ran for several miles, weaving in and out of the mountain side like bulging veins in an arm. There was something comfortably organic about the whole place. There were numerous interconnecting bridges spanning the area, a gentle stream splashing underneath them and lapping off the corners of the ridge. It ran like clockwork; everything had a purpose.

If Malcolm had not been assured otherwise, he would have firmly believed that he had died on that mountainside and been savaged by wolves. He would have believed that this was heaven - that he was with Rebecca once more - but he knew better than to believe anything but eternal punishment awaited his afterlife. Heaven it was certainly not.

He had found Nanda Parbat.

To Be Continued...

* * *

Okay, so... Boston Brand? Anyone?

*Sigh* That's okay. If I wanted to play to expectations, I would have. Brand, better known as Deadman in the DC universe, is the undead guardian of Nanda Parbat (at least for some amount of time) and is a member of the Black Lantern Corps, whose powers are derived from the concept of death. Yeah, that's right, I totally just introduced the Lanterns in the Arrow universe outside of the show... (I'll have you know that I jump great whites in my spare time.) Just... don't go expecting Stewart or Jordan to show up anytime soon...

Welp, see you all next chapter for the REAL introduction of DC's best-loved assassin.

ASouffleToServeTwo


End file.
